


I Dare You To Let Me Be (Your One And Only)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I promise I’m worthy to hold in your arms.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Dare You To Let Me Be (Your One And Only)

Title: I Dare You To Let Me Be (Your One And Only)  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Rachel Berry/Noah Puckerman, Quinn Fabray/Mike Chang, Sam Evans/Kurt Hummel  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2.  
Summary: _I promise I’m worthy to hold in your arms._  
A/N: Based fairly solely around the lyrics to Adele’s “One and Only.”

  


**1**

  
_I know it ain’t easy, giving up your heart._

 

She sees him daily for six years, and he never says a word to her. She sees him in classes, sitting in the center rows with long legs splayed, hands toying with crumpled paper balls on his desk. She sees him running laps with the football team, dark hair sticky with sweat and clutched to his forehead in the bright Ohio sunshine. She sees him in Glee, boneless and fluid with unquestionable grace, head bobbing and mouth smiling like he’s never loved anything more. She sees him all the damn time.

But the days of _seeing_ Mike Chang for the first time, genuinely seeing him, don't come until they’re halfway through senior year.

She doesn’t see it coming, this strange and unexpected thing he does, because Mike has never done something like this before. It’s not his style; he doesn’t sing, doesn’t stand up and shout, doesn’t call attention to himself in any way beyond his fancy footwork. In so many ways, he’s a downright _weird_ fit for Glee Club, a place for divas and drama. Glee is where Finn and Rachel grow nearly cutthroat by mid-October, where Puck explodes and throws a chair across the room after a failed test, where Artie and Tina send each other mopey stares when they think no one is watching. It’s a room for admissions and confessions and all manner of the truth-to-lie spectrum, and Mike?

Mike doesn’t really do either. No truth, no lies, just plain simplicity. He smiles. He nods. He dances. End of story.

It’s only after his splitting with Tina that he begins to speak to her at all. It’s a little strange, admittedly, but she takes it in stride. The man needs a friend, and God knows she’s got no overabundance of those herself. Glee is great for the immediacy factor, but when she goes home at night, she finds she has no one. Santana and Brittany don’t do much for the deep-intellectual chatter, and after Beth, she lost whatever camaraderie she once found in Mercedes…and Kurt…and Puck…

She’s lonely, sad to say it, and maybe Mike is too. Maybe he needs a friend, and she sure as hell can’t turn that away now.

He starts coming over in November, striding into her living room with a pizza and a bookbag once a week. They do homework for a few hours, silent but for the munching of pepperoni…and then, slowly, the words come. The smiles. The playful little shoves. By the time he hauls his Gamecube over and hooks it up to her TV in order to teach her the finer points of Mario games, she’s pretty sure they qualify as Real Friends.

Pretty sure. She hasn’t had many to go by.

Mike is smart, she finds out, in more than just the academic sense. He sees plenty more than she would have expected, and his observations are both perceptive and occasionally silly. He jokes about the events of the past two years, about the baby debacle, the Mercedes-pining-after-Kurt moment, Kurt’s (retrospectively creepy) obsession with Finn. He speaks of Santana, how she used to come to his house for make out sessions that always seemed to end with her wrapped around herself on his desk chair, quietly vocalizing all the things she’d never admitted about Brittany before. Of Puck, and how sophomore year was spent putting in long hours on the field, chucking a ball back and forth until well past sunset, until they knew each other’s motions well enough to forsake sight altogether. Of Rachel, and how she once fell asleep curled against his shoulder after he found her sobbing in the auditorium, crushed by—Quinn feels a stab of guilt—the abuse scrawled over the bathroom walls.

Mike is smart, and he seems to have seen everything, and it doesn’t take long at all for Quinn to realize he can see her, too. Better than anyone, maybe. Scarily well.

When he leans over one night, gently pulling Kerouac from her slack fingers and laying it aside, her breath catches in her throat, because _fuck_ , can’t she just have _one_ friend who doesn’t do this to her? But he doesn’t slide his hand up her skirt, or plant desperate teeth against her neck. He only grins and taps his forehead against her own.

He doesn’t move in further than that, doesn’t try to claim her or win her or demand a damn thing, and Quinn finds her heart thudding against her ribs. He’s a friend, she reminds herself weakly, just a friend, and he’s sweet and charming in a way no other boy ever has been, but—still. A friend. She knows what comes of blurring _that_ particular line.

She knows.

He waits. Letting her have this. Letting _her_ decide, for once.

The speed at which she surges forward to kiss him shocks them both, and she finds herself smiling wryly against his mouth. It’s unwise, almost certainly, but she can’t help it. He _is_ sweet, and kind, and he sees everything. He sees her—has been _willing_ to see her, the way no other boy ever has. No one, shy of perhaps the enigma that is Rachel Berry, has ever tried to see her before.

He is rapidly becoming her best friend, and maybe that’s what makes this okay. Because friendship is supposed to be that all-purpose starting point, isn’t it?

It seems a better start than wine coolers, anyway.

  


**2**

  
_I don’t know why I’m scared; I’ve been here before—every feeling, every word._  
  


He’s in her room again. It’s the fourth time this has happened, the fourth very strange time, and somehow, she can’t breathe. Her heart feels like it’s going to explode if it bangs any harder against her breastbone, and really, why don’t her dads ever say anything about these boys in her room all the time? That would certainly get her out of uncomfortable situations.

Or…perfectly comfortable, as this case might be.

Too comfortable.

It’s just screaming _bad idea_ , honestly.

He’s seated on the edge of her bed with a guitar, and this is how it always starts. Him strumming along, his neatly shaven head buzzing under her lamplight, the strip of thick, gelled hair looking decidedly too tempting for its own good. His hands are large and worn, the callouses evident from across the room, and she finds him eerily beautiful—exactly the way a hungry tiger is.

He isn’t even looking at her; his eyes are on the strings dancing beneath languid fingertips, and she finds herself wondering if those fingers will feel any different on her skin this time. If they’ll move faster, or slower, or gentler. If they’ll move her to tears, or whimpers, or—

It’s just a _very bad idea_ to have him here. She feels like she’s losing her mind.

“Noah, why do you come here?” she blurts out. His head rises, big eyes blinking sleepily. He smiles, and her heart twists over the way it did when she accidentally backed Papa’s car into a mailbox. The way it did when he sang to her that first time. It’s a dangerous sort of twist.

“You want me to go, babe?”

 _No_. “I’m only asking,” she elaborates delicately, “because you don’t do it often. Only when—“

“Only when you ask me to,” he finishes, eyebrow arched. “Puckerone only goes where he’s wanted, babe. You havin’ second thoughts? ‘Cuz that’s cool. We can just jam out for a bit, but if you don’t wanna do the roll around with the Puckster, I’m gonna have to jet out early. Got a standing date with Tina McAsian on Thursdays.”

Her throat clenches, fists balling against her skirt. “Right. Um.”

He strums once more, then sets the guitar aside and leans forward. His legs are spread, his hands dangling between his knees, and she has to fight every impulse to charge across the room and leap on him. It isn’t fair that he could look this attractive, and be this easy to sway, and still never be—

“Noah, how many girls are you with right now?”

He makes a show of gazing around the room, mouth agape. “Damn, Berry, unless you’ve got some fine ladies stowed away in your closet…” He thinks for a minute, then grins. “And, if you do, we’ve got a whole new set of options for the night.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I’m asking.”

His expression softens, smile relaxing slightly. “Sure, Berry. I’m just not sure _why_ you’re asking.”

She doesn’t know either. Except for the part where she does, and she hates herself for it, and—

“Puckzilla is totally up for telling you anything you want to hear,” he continues, and she grits her teeth, wishing like hell he would stop referring to himself by terrible third-person nicknames. “Thing is, I’m not sure you really want to hear that answer. Do you?”

He’s right about that much, but admitting it would be a terrible sort of defeat. Rachel’s jaw tightens.

“Berr— _Rachel_.” He stands and crosses to her, laying one large, strong hand on her shoulder. She stares determinedly at his chest, gaze swimming in the deep green of his t-shirt. “Whatever’s on your mind, we can get that out in the open. Might be a good call, you know? Since I doubt I’ll be getting any play with you all bummed out and shit.”

It’s a joke, she thinks, his way of trying to lighten the mood. Too bad she’s not up for it. Her head shakes.

“It’s a dumb idea, Noah. Forget it. You want to go on the bed or the chair this time?”

“Floor,” he replies instantly. Her head jerks up, eyes blazing unhappily. He shrugs. “Honesty, babe. But seriously. Talk first, mack later. And if you tell anyone I said that to you, I’m sneaking back in here uninvited and burning your fucking Phantom pamplet.”

“Playbill,” she corrects automatically. He grins.

“Sure. That paper thing with all the songs in it. Whatever.”

Rachel sighs, pulling free of his hand and turning away. “I don’t know, Noah. I just…I keep inviting you here, and I don’t know why.”

“I’m a banging kisser,” he tells her cheerfully. “Good enough reason for anybody.”

“I’m serious,” she groans. “You’re the worst person in the world for me to be spending time with. Your bad-boy allure is just…ridiculous by now, and it’s not as though I’ve got anyone to make jealous anymore. I’m wasting your time.”

“No time spent in lip-lock is wasted,” he informs her wisely. She feels his arms slide around her waist, guiding her smoothly back against his chest. “But in all seriousness, Rach, you’re not wasting anything from where I’m standing. I like hanging with you like this. You’re not all high-strung and repressed. It’s cool.”

“Cool.” She shakes her head. “I don’t give you sex.”

He shrugs, fingers drumming up and down her stomach. “So? Zizes never gave me sex in the four months and couple hundred bucks I spent on her. And Santana used to give me sex all the fuckin’ time, but mostly she used me as a ball-buster. Dudes do not like to be played for shit like that, not for all the pussy in the world.”

She cringes, relaxing only when he lowers his head and brushes soft lips against her ear. “You’re cool, Rachel. And your body is fantastic. _And_ you’ve finally dumped my loser bro, Hudson, on his big dumb face, which proves you’re pretty smart on top of it all. Why would you be a waste of my time?”

“Tina—,” she manages weakly, knees buckling a little when his tongue traces her earlobe. He laughs huskily against her skin, nose dipping and nuzzling against her neck.

“That’s what you’re worried about? Sharing? Babe, Tina and me, we’ve got a fuckin’ business arrangement. She gives me music and a little of her sweet Asian time, I keep her in lawn care and full-time protective services. We’re just buds, I swear.”

“Buds who bone,” Rachel mutters in a sickly sort of monotone. He hugs her tighter.

“Say the word, babe,” he says softly, “and I’ll cut it off. No questions asked. She’s got that old jones for Legs to begin with, so it’s not like she’ll be totally smashed up. You just gotta ask.”

She turns in his arms, eyes wide, resisting the urge to clamp hands on the front of his shirt and shake him desperately. “You mean that?”

“Fuck yeah, I mean it,” he laughs. “Now. You wanna make out, or what?”

She fairly tackles him to the floor.

  


**3  
**  
 _You’ve been on my mind; I grow fonder every day._

 

That kid, the one with the weird sequined shirt and the big blue eyes, will not go away. Sam hasn’t talked to him yet, mostly because he always seems to be standing in a crowd of distressingly pretty girls, but words exchanged or not, this is getting to be a problem.

Because he won’t go away.

His scarves, his tight jeans, that little smug smirk that always seems to be playing on his lips—they’re haunting Sam to the point of distraction. He can’t even watch _Smallville_ right now, even though he’s got a season and a half to make up for, because his mind keeps jerking away from Clark Kent’s troubles and landing back on Sam’s own.

He lays on his back on the bed, tossing a basketball up and catching it, watching the blades of his ceiling fan throw shadowy patterns across the ceiling, and there’s that kid. Floating on the edge of his consciousness, grinning arrogantly, his long fingers pulling through flawless brown hair.

Sam wishes his own hair could be half that flawless, but there’s this whole thing about lemon juice that doesn’t work as well as he’d hoped. At least no one at school seems to notice. He hopes it stays that way.

Because this whole thing is supposed to go down differently. The last school, the shit he got into—it blew. Hard. He’s worked hard not to be that kid anymore, the one who takes other people’s crap and walks away without a word. He’s strong now, fast, athletic. He has beaten his body into shape, forced his vision into a sort of clarity he can’t afford to lose now. He needs this.

Except that kid with the blue eyes is always hovering, and Sam’s beginning to worry that maybe he’s going to come to need him, too.  
Which isn’t helpful. It actually sort of goes against the plan.

Finn Hudson, his new-found best friend, is the guy who introduces them in the coming weeks, and it’s through something called Glee. Something Finn seems to love with all his slightly-self-centered heart, and it takes barely two practices for Sam to see why. Glee is awesome and real in a way nothing else in that school—maybe in _any_ school—seems to be. It’s all about expression and hope, closing your eyes and belting your lungs out until all the oxygen is burned up. It’s about joy.

Sam could use some joy.

It doesn’t hurt that old Blue Eyes is hanging out in the corner, a jaunty hat tilted down over his forehead, his jacket wound around his waist. He’s laughing and joking with two girls, one blonde and leggy, the other dark-skinned and beautiful. His little posse make up the sort of people Sam _should_ be looking at, but all he can do is watch Blue Eyes out of the corner of his own, curious.

Kurt Hummel is his name.

He sings like he’s trying to bring the house down.

Sam wants to know him.

It goes against the plan, against _all_ plans, but as soon as Kurt starts to sing and dance and speak, Sam is sold. The kid is just _great_. He’s bleeding talent, and his sense of humor—if a little biting—is fantastic. Sam wonders if he’s ever seen _The Dark Knight_. He wonders if he could invite him over to watch it some night. Would that be weird?

 _Yes_ , a dark, nervous little voice in his head mutters, but Sam tunes it out. Because Kurt might like _The Dark Knight_. Or _The X-Files_. Or Bikini Kill.

Kurt might like all sorts of things Sam does. Or maybe he likes all sorts of things—big, awesome, sophisticated things—Sam has never heard of. Maybe he could teach him sometime.

Sam wonders what kind of iPod the other boy has, what sorts of playlists are on it. Does he title them by mood? Month? Witty little slangs? Does he like jazz, or hip-hop, or swing? Does he hate rap with everything he is and groove to old-school Motown classics, or does he stick solely to those Broadway ballads he keeps tearing Sam’s chest open with?

Sam wonders all sorts of things, and the more time he spends in Glee, the stronger the urge to get to know Kurt becomes. He seats himself near the other boy, eager to bask in the resplendent glow of Kurt’s latest outfit or sharp-barbed remark. He ignores the sideways glances Finn sends him, unwilling to admit just yet how much of a problem this really is.

It’s bad, yes, okay, but it could be much worse. He could be fawning openly. He could be outing himself over the school’s intercom. He could be giving all of it up before it even starts, and he’s not. He sees the smiles Quinn Fabray sends him, and he returns them in kind, because Quinn is pretty. It’s not like he’s _totally_ gay, like he would give up every girl in the world for even the limpest of dicks. He likes girls okay, and he likes Quinn. Her eyes are sweet, and she seems interested.

But Kurt…Kurt’s smile is sweeter. His laugh cuts under Sam’s skin and rests there, vibrating against his beating heart. When he tilts his head back and sweeps a hand against Mercedes’ shoulder, Sam’s chest aches with the force of it.

Quinn’s pretty, but Kurt is damn near mystical. That’s the difference—and the danger.

He can’t shake him, can’t tear loose and keep on the path he should be treading, but he can’t kick over entirely, either. Kurt’s amazing, but he’s also very out. He flames like the Olympic torch, and Sam can’t figure that one out just yet. Maybe someday, but not quite now.

Still, when Kurt corners him the day of the duet challenge and proposes a partnership, Sam can’t bring himself to say no. And when Finn finally steps in, lumbering up to warn Sam away, he finds himself boiling with a strange, foreign rage. It’s not much, his decision to stick it out with Kurt—it’s not a journey to Middle Earth, he isn’t rescuing any princesses, and there’s no dead relative to avenge. It doesn’t make him a hero. If anything, it’s an immensely selfish decision, one that leaves him with the opportunity to ask Kurt some of the questions that have been dipping through his mind each night.

He’s not half as honorable as he’s pretending to be, all of that considered, but hell—he has to start somewhere. Singing a duet seems as good an idea as any to finally put to rest some of this rampant curiosity.

 _Or, maybe_ , that anxious little voice sings out, _to grow more curious than ever. Who knows?_

  


**4**

  


_You’ll never know if you never try to forget your past and simply be mine._

She’s standing on the front porch with her hands wound together, fretting like a little girl, and how fucking stupid _is_ this, anyway? She knows Brittany like the back of her hand, has always known her, and it’s not like this is going to end poorly. Right?

It can’t end poorly, because if it does, she’s fucked. Her life as she knows it is over, and maybe she’ll be able to pick up a new one somewhere along the way, but the desire to do so is probably going to be in negative digits. She needs this, needs Brittany, and there is simply no way around it.

This has to work.

She rings the bell again and glances over her shoulder to make sure everyone is where they said they’d be. These people, these stupid fucking people, most of whom she’s spent countless hours and internet manpower despising, and her happiness is resting in their collective sweaty hands. It’s gross. Her world right now is gross.

But she’s fucked up so many times that this is it, the final straw. The last ditch effort. She has to do _something_.

That something just happens to involve all of _them_ this time. A last ditch effort has to involve the big guns, and Brittany’s sense of family is stronger than anything else in her. Except, maybe— _hopefully_ —her sense of love.

Santana sucks in a breath as a bright blue eye appears in the tiny window, studying her for a long, dry second. Her body hurts all over as though she’d been lifting weights until dawn in preparation for this. Her mind spins. What if Brittany doesn’t open the door? What happens then? What if—

The hinges squeak as the purple door peels back, revealing long legs in dark jeans and an unzipped sweatshirt that (her heart goes into double-time as she registers it) once belonged to Santana herself. Blonde hair is twisted atop her head and a pair of sunglasses are clipped to the collar of her shirt. She’s gorgeous and perfect, and Santana can’t do this.

She takes a halting step backwards and very nearly goes tumbling from the porch. Behind her, she hears Quinn cough loudly. The signal to get her head out of her ass and man up before it’s too late. She hates Fabray a fuck of a lot sometimes, but thank God she’s here now, or this might go all to hell in a handbasket.

It still might.

Santana breathes again, a vast, shuddering sigh, and hikes her arms above her head. Nestled between her palms, Kurt’s iHome glints in the sunlight, cradling her iPod with all the love and precious need Santana can’t find any other way to get across. She reaches over with a trembling finger and crushes the play button, eyes never leaving Brittany’s.

This has to work, because if it doesn’t, she’s probably going to have to throw herself onto the highway with her arms spread wide. And that would just suck for Prom.

The opening piano chords of the song pull through the air with a fierce exhilaration, and Santana lets herself be buoyed by them. Behind her, she hears the remainder of the club hum low in their throats, following each beat with their own. Brittany’s lips part inquisitively, her head cocking to the left as she listens.

Adele’s jazzy-wounded voice drifts from the speakers, barely audible beneath Rachel’s crystal clear lyrics. Then Puck’s. Quinn’s. Sam’s. Tina drawls out half a line, then hands it over to Mercedes for the close, and when the chorus comes—

Santana, legs spread firmly apart, arms going slightly numb from holding so resolutely above her head, allows the words to spiral off her tongue and out onto the warm spring air. She hums, and then whispers, and then belts with everything she has. Behind her, the others—her _friends_ , woe be her for it—trail along. She knows they’re swaying in a sort of organized chaos, arms around one another, beaming smiles on beaming faces. She knows they look like abject idiots, and she doesn’t care. Brittany’s face is tranquil, liquid emotion pooling in deep blue eyes. Santana sets her feet more steadily and sings louder, harder.

The song always felt so short when they practiced, so pithy for the feelings she holds dear, but now it seems to go on and on. The words crackle and fall around them, drawing neighbors from their homes and giving cars pause in the road. Brittany’s hands wring together, fingers playing with the silver ring on her right hand. The one Santana gave her last Christmas, before her most recent fuck-up, before the split that threatened to rend her very world.

A break-up with Brittany was bound to destroy her just as surely as calling her “girlfriend” was set to save her. It’s not something she can explain; it’s just the law of the land. It’s life. Brittany is everything, regardless of fuck-ups and break-ups and anything else that might throw a wrench into it all.

Santana husks the last few phrases of “One and Only,” watching for any change in Brittany’s expression. Watching for the moment when her girl—her ex-girl, the one who needs to be hers again right fucking _now_ if Santana hopes to retain any sanity at all—might throw them all off her property for good.

The music comes to a close, and Santana hastily slams a finger down on the pause button before the shuffle function can start blasting something inconvenient, like the B-52s. Brittany stares at her, feet shuffling against the tile of her front landing as Santana winces and pulls her arms down at last. She probably won’t be able to make good use of them again for an hour, but forget that; if this has worked, the tingling pins will all be worth it.

_And if it doesn’t, I deserve them anyway._

Brittany stares her down, biting her lip, and just when Santana is absolutely positive she’s fucked, she steps off the landing. Out the door. Pulls it shut behind her.

“That was amazing,” is all she says before collecting Santana into warm arms and holding her ferociously close. Over on the lawn, she hears Puckerman whoop, followed by a loud wet sound, and has the disturbing sense he’s just shoved his tongue into the midget’s mouth. Not that she cares. Not now.

“I love you,” she mumbles against Brittany’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Brittany whispers back into her hair, smoothing a hand up and down Santana’s back. “You did all this for me?”

“Always,” Santana drawls back, clutching fistfuls of sweatshirt and ignoring the way Brittany’s sunglasses bite into her front. “You still my girl?”

“Always,” Brittany replies, dragging her into a dizzying kiss. Santana grins into it, tuning out the tussle of sound and chaos that is their friends as they charge forward and sweep them into a massive group hug. The stupid fuckers are the most ridiculous people she knows, but they saved her life today. She can grant them one stupid hug.

They’ve earned her girl back, all of them, the family they’ve become. She’ll give them anything they want for keeping the past from overwhelming any shred of happiness she’s ever known.

Because, thanks to them, Brittany is once again her future. The only future she’s ever craved. And that’s what counts.

She kisses her again, too elated beyond words or music to do anything else.


End file.
